


All about the dark places you hide

by crookedspoon



Series: No Nuptials Necessary [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cleaning, Humiliation kink, Jason Todd is a dirty dirty clean freak, M/M, Masturbation, POV Jason Todd, very messy kitchen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 01:39:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18043019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: Stupid Nightwing. Stupid, uptight asshole and his holier-than-thou attitude. Jason would so love to punch that self-satisfied smirk off that pretty boy face sometime. It's all his fault for making Jason crave things he can't have.





	All about the dark places you hide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/gifts).



> Fills the "Humiliation" square from my Batfam Ship card.
> 
> This is your resident crook once again stealing other people's ideas for their own amusement. This month: Wifey Jason brought into this world by [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess). (Thank you for blessing us, and especially me!) This idea is slowly taking on a life of its own.
> 
> Many thanks also to Kess for the beta!

Jason is tossing and turning, legs tangled in the sheets, ready to kick them off for the umpteenth time that night. It's been going on for what feels like hours, but has been no more than one and a half. He'd even tried jerking off earlier, but sleep is nowhere to be had. Not when the events from earlier keep pestering him like this.

With an exasperated sigh, he throws his head back against the pillow again, eyes staring up at the ceiling, watching passing cars throw fluttering lights across it through the blinds every now and then. He scrubs his hand over his face, willing sleep to claim him already. Not that he has any hopes of it doing him the favor _this_ time around either.

He stuffs his hand back beneath his waistband where his cock is nestled half-hard against his hip. Wisps of pleasure curl through him as he grips himself. It may not have worked so fantastically before, but at this point he's willing to try again. Maybe he can get there this time if he only focuses on stroking himself, if he doesn't let the thoughts intrude.

The thoughts intrude anyway.

This is all Dick's fault.

Stupid Nightwing. Stupid, uptight asshole and his holier-than-thou attitude. Jason would so love to punch that arrogant smirk off that pretty boy face sometime. That would be so gratifying.

_Look at me, I'm Nightwing, I'm the golden boy, I couldn't make a mistake even if I tried._

Well, fuck you.

There are no words to express how much Dick fucking aggravates him.

Earlier, when he'd come back, Jason had to suppress the urge to fling his helmet through the room and flung his leather jacket instead. That at least has fewer electronics he could have cracked.

And wouldn't Dick just love knowing he pisses Jason off so hard it would result in broken equipment.

_Temper, temper, Little Wing. You need to learn to keep your emotions in check._

And _you_ need to learn to keep your stupid, unhelpful comments in check before Jason stuffs them back into your mouth.

With his fist, in case that wasn't clear.

So Jason fucked up. Big deal. Dick didn't have to pretend that _he_ had never fucked up before in his life.

But it wasn't just that Jason had fucked up. He'd fucked up and it'd cost _Dick._ After Jason had asked him for backup. This was on him, and it could have been so easily avoided. But no, Jason had to prove that he'd had everything under control, that the bust would be a piece of cake – bite-sized, barely worth mentioning – and Jason brought it to Dick's attention so he wouldn't just swoop in and kick Jason's ass too because a) he couldn't keep his fucking nose out and b) he assumed Jason was in on the deal. ("Well, are you? What if this isn't just an elaborate ruse to lull me into thinking you're here to help, only for you to set me up." - "This is a courtesy call. I'm going in with or without you. Fell free to be on the other side of the city when I do. In fact, I'd prefer it." - "Relax, Jason. I was joking. Of course I got your back." - "That's what I feared.")

For the last couple of weeks, Jason had been following an Intergang trail halfway across the globe and it led him, inevitably, back to the East Coast. Not Gotham or Blüdhaven, not this time around – that would have just been asking for punishment. Appears they can still learned their lessons. But Jason can also learn things, and he's learned something about a weapons shipment through a very helpful clerk who was smart enough to prize his life more than his affiliations in the moment he was staring down the barrel of Jason's gun. (Jason can be very persuasive like that. Or maybe it's his irresistible charm that makes people just open up to him.) Through a series of clever "clergical errors" and "technical mishaps" he'd re-routed the shipment and buried the evidence so that Intergang wouldn't be tipped off.

He opted for Blüdhaven as the new destination because it was the safer choice – and anyone who knew anything about the Haven would be laughing in his face if they heard him call it safer than Gotham. But the truth is, Jason was in no particular mood to see Bruce, who'd no doubt find out about the updated container info before anyone else did and would show up to investigate.

Jason wasn't really keen on seeing Dick either, but as far as evils went, Dick counted as the lesser of the two (and the mere fact that Dick could be lesser in _something_ pleased Jason to no end, even if the assessment was entirely his own).

At least he could work with Dick. Most of the time. When Dick didn't insist on being a giant ass about something he and Jason could find no common ground on.

To preempt any debate on principles, Jason had agreed to the no killing deal before Dick even opened his mouth to make it his stipulation for working together. Save him the breath and them some time. It's always the same predictable old hat with the Bats, never any surprises. Jason keeps his supply of rubber bullets well-stocked for that reason.

He'd brought them too, although he didn't see a shootout happening and expected that, with Nightwing's help, they'd take out any thugs quickly and silently, no fuss, no drama, no sweat broken.

This is where Jason kills the mood for himself by strangling his cock, because of course it all went sideways.

It should have been a breeze: Get in, beat up bad guys, secure the shipment, let the cops handle the cleanup. But Jason had been careless. He hadn't accounted for the backup that would surround them at the docks. That's what you get for underestimating your opponent. An organization like Intergang has ties everywhere and he should have been able to imagine that they could mobilize a group of trigger-happy tough guys at any time any-fucking-where. Perhaps they'd even been on standby at the major ports and were alerted the moment the shipment didn't arrive at its supposed destination.

Jason should have guessed. He should have been prepared for all eventualities, the way he had been trained to be. Then Dick wouldn't have had to take a bullet that was meant for him.

It'd been a shoulder shot, nothing too serious, but it bled like a bitch and hampered Dick's ability to grapple from rooftop to rooftop. So once Jason had swept the floor with the remaining Intergang idiots, he lent his support and all but carried Dick to the nearest safehouse.

Dick was pale-faced and trembling by the time they made it to one, and most of his blood had seeped through his bandage and onto Jason's jacket and chest armor where Dick had clung to him like a rhesus monkey. At this point and despite Dick's outward appearance, Jason was more worried about his jacket than he was worried about Dick, wondering how long it would be before he could clean it. Jason very much doubted Dick had any hydrogen peroxide on hand, so that would have to wait until he could get into one of his _own_ safehouses.

Once they'd staggered into Dick's (frankly disgusting) bathroom (there was grime in the sink and grit in the shower – it was giving Jason more white hairs!), Jason deposited Dick on a stool and rummaged through his medicine cabinet for antibiotics. Then he got out Dick's first aid kit and suppressed the horrified shudder about having to do this in a non-sterile environment – worse, he imagined Dick having treated his wounds in here before.

At least he had disposable nitrile gloves. In an unopened box. Probably a housewarming gift from Alfred.

Jason helped peel Dick out of his uniform and then promptly had to slap Dick's hand away from the utensils he'd laid out. If that idiot thought Jason would let him treat his wound himself, he'd better think again. If it weren't for Jason, he wouldn't have had to deal with it in the first place. Dick never even mentioned it. He was probably too out of it by then.

Setting the guilt over his fuck-up aside for the moment to focus on the task at hand, Jason sterilized the tweezers and, after waiting for Dick's go-ahead, went fishing for the slug. Dick didn't make any noise, but the tendons in his neck stood out sharply and his breathing became heavier and cut-off at the end.

It didn't take Jason long to locate and extract the bullet. Dick visibly slumped the moment it was out. ("Don't pass out on me yet, goldie. I carried you enough for one day so you gotta make it to your bed by yourself, understand?")

The minute Jason had done all he could for Dick and his wound, and sent him to sleep it off, he stripped off his jacket and upper body armor to inspect the damage. Dried flakes were coming off when he scrubbed his hand over them. Grabbing a damp flannel, he dabbed at the offending spots before resigning himself to doing it properly later on in his own space. Dick needed food in him when he woke, so Jason had to prepare it.

Contrary to what Jason thought was possible, the kitchen turned out to be even more disgusting than the bathroom, and that had already screamed at Jason with its need for a thorough cleaning. Dishes were stacked atop each other in the sink, half-eaten takeout boxes were gathering mold on the counter, a container of milk curdling merrily away next to them.

Cold horror settled in Jason's chest. He had never seen a kitchen this filthy before and was surprised he hadn't spotted any cockroaches scurrying away when he'd flicked on the lights.

He hardly dared step into it, much less search the cabinets for anything edible. Going by the amount of takeout boxes Dick couldn't even bother throwing into the trash, there probably wasn't much.

He _definitely_ did not dare open the fridge to find out what elder god had festered inside.

Everything within him strained against the mess in front of him. He would _have_ to clean all this up before he could even _think_ about making food in this kitchen. There was no way around it.

Putting on another pair of nitrile gloves, Jason wished he had something to cover the rest of his body with, to protect himself from the filth. He wasn't going to look for anything to throw on because he didn't trust Dick to have washed his clothes within a reasonable amount of time, and so he would rather take his chances with the filth from the kitchen.

Besides, compared to Jason, Dick is a skinny little bitch and Jason doubts any of his clothes would fit him. If not his body, then definitely his sense of fashion.

Resigning himself to his fate even as all the hairs on his arms stood on end, Jason mentally rolled up his nonexistent sleeves and decided to start clearing off anything that belonged in the trash. Which was overflowing and in dire need of being taken out itself. Jason yelped when he opened the lid – a grave mistake – and a swarm of flies greeted him.

He dropped the takeout container filled with coagulated soup. It landed with a wet splash, exploding across the floor and Jason's boots. By that point, Jason lacked the energy to even groan.

He picked up the container and tossed it into the trash. To clean up the rest of this mess, however, he'd need a mop. He had no idea where Dick would even keep one, let alone if he owned such a thing in the first place. Somehow, Jason doubted it.

His eyes locked on a roll of paper towels. Those would have to do. Moving toward it, the soles of Jason's boots _stuck_ to the floor and every step felt like his soul was being ripped from his body. Had Dick thrown a carton of juice onto the floor and simply let it dry? Jason was afraid the answer might be yes.

If he hadn't felt as guilty as he did about the whole situation with Dick getting shot to protect him, he would have scrammed already. Let Dick live in this pigsty, what the fuck did he care.

But since the guilt was there and likely to stay and nest, Jason would have to suck it up and deal with the disgust he felt.

Ripping off two paper towels at a time, he distributed them over the gelatinous spread on the floor. They sucked up the moisture greedily, so Jason had to add a second layer and pat it down with a foot.

Pressing his forearm to his nose and mouth, he opened drawer after drawer in search of trash bags, which brought him ever closer to the pile of precariously stacked dishes that Jason feared had become sentient. His insides were seizing, gag reflex acting up. It had been hours since he'd last eaten, so he'd only dry heave instead of adding to the disaster, but still. Did he really need to dry heave in the first place?

At least Dick owned trash bags. Thank God for small mercies.

Jason knelt down to scoop up the soaked paper towels. Even through his gloves, the gooey substance beneath his palm made his hackles rise. He thought he was going to cry. He grumbled instead, cursing Dick and his habits that went far beyond slovenly and right into dangerous health hazard. Was that guy _trying_ to get an infection? Or was he sperhaps an alien slime mold who needed his habitat near a certain toxicity level in order to survive? Implausible as it may sound, it's the only explanation Jason could accept.

"Grayson, you filthy, filthy animal," he gritted out through his teeth, trying his best not to inhale, "if I get my hands on you when you're all better, I'm making you scrub your apartment with your fucking _toothbrush."_

This is as far as Jason gets in his mental retellings of today's events, any farther and his mind just balks, going right back to the beginning, because this is where everything just sort of _skewed,_ like a folding puzzle you pull apart, or the first drop of an avalanche just before it gets rolling.

He doesn't want to go there, doesn't want to be reminded of what a fucking freak he is, but his cock is insistent, urging him on, because that is where he'll find release. Frantically, Jason screws his eyes shut and barrels on, beating off faster.

A sudden noise had startled Jason out of his verbal abuse, something akin to a strangled cough.

His head whipped around to throw a glance over his shoulder, only to find Dick standing in the doorway, gripping the frame to steady himself and just _staring_ down at Jason with his lips parted and his eyes glassy and feverish.

Dick's expression was the result of pain and blood loss, Jason knew, but it looked so much like arousal that his own body responded in kind.

His jock was getting tighter by the second and he suddenly became all too aware of the picture he must have made: dried sweat matting his skin, kneeling on all fours in nothing but combat boots, armored pants and disposable gloves, ass up high and presented invitingly as if begging to be smacked – or taken. Or both.

Preferably both.

Jason sat back on his heels as if struck by a whip. That thought had come out of nowhere but now that it was there, it settled heavily in Jason's stomach. He swallowed hard, unable to meet Dick's eyes, fearing he might read him like an open book. He yearned for something to cover himself with.

 _This_ is why he wears a helmet, to remain impervious to outside scrutiny.

In the silence that stretched uncomfortably between them, he caught Dick adjusting himself with his free hand. He tried very hard not to gawk at the outline that was making itself known at the front of Dick's sweat pants.

Jason's fingers curled into fists in his lap. He was crawling with nerves. Any moment now, _something_ would burst. Had to. The tension was almost tangible.

"Um," Dick said with a rasp, snapping Jason's attention back to his face. "I just. Wanted some water. You don't have to do that."

"Huh?"

"Clean, I mean."

"Oh, I dropped something," Jason said, more shamed by that fact than the entire thing was worth.

"I. Okay. Guess I'll leave you to it then. Sorry to intrude."

 _Dude, this is your kitchen,_ Jason wanted to say. "Your water?"

"I'll just get it from the bathroom."

Dick was talking with his hands as well, pointing his thumbs over his shoulder, then tucking them under the rest of his fingers, then spreading them all out again and wiping them against his pants before turning around and shuffling off.

Jason stayed rooted to his spot, staring after Dick's retreating back and marinading in the unreality of the whole scene. He was kneeling in the most disgusting kitchen he'd ever seen, mopping up the most disgusting mess he'd ever made, and yet he was rock-hard inside his cup and mourning the loss of something he had no name for.

Dick could have stalked over and shoved Jason face-first onto the sticky floor with a foot on his back and, despite the panic that would have induced, Jason would not have been any less hard. He might even have thanked Dick for it.

And what a way to come out as freak. He'd never have gotten over the humiliation.

Stupid Dick. Stupid, uptight asshole who'd look at him like Jason was the most delectable thing he'd seen in a long while and then... do nothing. And that's what annoys Jason the most: that he'd _wanted_ Dick to do something. That he'd wanted Dick to walk over, grab a fistful or two of his hair and tip his head up so Jason had to look at Dick smiling down in that insufferable way he has. That he'd wanted Dick to make Jason clean his entire apartment just so he could watch him skid around on his knees. That he'd wanted him to fuck him right there on the floor, to come inside him, and make him finish mopping up with a mess of his own dribbling down the inside of his thighs.

Jason breathes faster just thinking about it.

And of course Dick _wouldn't_ do any of that. He's too much of a boy scout to take the liberty of stuffing his cock down Jason's throat and use it like it was meant to.

Jason nearly choked on his disappointment and his desire – on that fucking _need_ to be used like a fucktoy and then discarded, and the humiliation of wanting that in the first place. Cleaning Dick's kitchen seemed like a fitting punishment. He did it to appease his guilt and not because he secretly hoped Dick would come back to tell him that he appreciates what Jason is doing, that he looks pretty doing it, and that he makes excellent wife material. That he'd then bend Jason over the freshly wiped counter and tell him again how pretty he looks taking his cock. _Bet you'd look just as pretty riding it, but I like you like this, don't you?_

And Jason would agree, because he likes being used, likes being useful, and if Dick liked using him like that, he couldn't be happier.

But Dick didn't come back and Jason had to do the dishes with sweat instead of come drying on his face, dripping off his chin and sliding down his neck. It just wasn't the same, and Jason's aggravation was sticking in the back of his throat.

He'd rather have had Dick's cock shoved down his throat while Dick was smirking down at him with his self-satisfied grin turned slightly mean, his hand squeezing Jason's neck until he was seeing stars, and calling him "slut, I've always known you'd be good for it, always known you had a hankering for my cock, so how do you like it now that you're choking on it? Pretty good, huh? Yeah, you're such a good little slut. You were made for sucking cock. I should buy you an apron, tie you up with the strings, and keep you. You'd like that too, wouldn't you?"

With a final flick of his wrist, Jason comes in hot pulses over his hand, body shuddering and spasming, teeth clenched so hard they're aching, mind buzzing in a blank haze.

By and by, he feels like drifting down from a soft cotton cloud. His tense muscles relax and a hollow sense of fulfillment rolls over him in waves. He's staring up at the ceiling again, the washed-out gray of the pre-dawn light filling the room and mirroring his mood. His body is satisfied and yet, the gaping emptiness inside him yawns wider.

He ignores it, like he ignores it every other time, because it's no use dwelling on something he can't have, even if the ache sits deep and ancient, like roots grown through his foundation. He can handle this on his own. He's been doing fine so far. No big deal.

His hands are trembling when he wipes himself down, when he pulls up his sheets and brushes his sweat-soaked strands out of his eyes, and he attributes it to the exhaustion settling in his bones, nothing else.

This is all Dick's fault, is his last thought before he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Sweet Little Lies" by bülow.
> 
> For more on this, check out the NNN series, aka. wifey-verse. kuro and I are likely gonna go crazy in there.


End file.
